


Dinner

by buckybleeds



Series: Alphabet Soup [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, HYDRA Trash Party, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: While imprisoned in the munitions factory Bucky can either let his cellmates starve or join the officers for dinner.





	Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> *Raises glass*  
> Yep, that's some garbage right there.
> 
> Come yell prompts at me on tumblr: https://buckybleeds.tumblr.com/

Bucky Barnes was on his knees, where he'd been put, filthy, shaking, and standing out like a cockroach on a powder puff in the white linen and pine officers' dining room. He hadn't spoken, he hadn't been spoken to, he'd simply been marched away from his cell at gunpoint and forced to kneel beside the head of the table as a bunch of over- groomed Nazis spoke soft German and finished up their dinner. 

He'd been on the factory line all day, he stunk and his fingers were a mass of blisters. The table was full of the sound of silver on porcelain. The air smelled rich. 

His stomach growled.

The officer beside him set his fork and knife down with mechanical precision before shifting his attention to center wholly on the man at his feet. 

"Are you hungry, American?"

Bucky's stomach rumbled again but otherwise he didn't answer. The guard behind him made no move to hit him or correct him. The officer shrugged minutely and returned his attention to his plate. 

 

***

 

The next morning at breakfast a guard slapped Bucky's tray out of his hands. Between the apple Morita gave him and the half of Jones' bread ration he figured he'd be able to get through the day. 

Dugan surprised him by passing over a piece of cheese wrapped in paper while they both waited for a dipper of water. 

He'd get through the day, no problem. 

 

***

 

It was the same scene at dinner that night. Kneeling, dirty, listening to the boss krauts eat. The head officer finished his meal. He'd kept back a chunk of meat that glistened with fat and dripped gravy. He pinched it delicately between his fingers and held it a few inches away from Bucky's watering mouth. 

"Are you hungry, American?"

Bucky kept his mouth shut and stared straight ahead. 

The officer smiled gently, dropped the meat on the floor, and waved to the guard. 

He was hustled back to his cell where the lights went out when the door locked. Someone pressed a piece of brown bread into his hand. 

 

***

 

Another morning, another tray slapped out of his hands, another apple. Dernier, improbably, produced a whole carrot that he tucked in Bucky's pocket as they passed each other on the factory floor. 

 

***

 

This time he was diverted to the showers before trekking to the officers' mess. One guard roughly stripped him while the other stood back and watched impassively with his hand on his gun. 

He was shoved under a cold stream of water and handed a bar of soap. They let him shave, perhaps foolishly. He thought about his ma and was able to resist the urge to slit his throat. 

They dragged him to another room, leaving his clothes behind. He was handed a pair of soft black flannel pants and a crisp white dress shirt instead. He stared at the clothes for a long time before he put them on. In spite of his protests they didn't give him back his boots and he entered the dining room with bare feet. 

Dinner seemed to go on forever. They were eating some kind of fish, and after the main course regular soldiers served coffee and tiny dishes of ice cream. 

Finally the officer set aside his cup. 

"Are you hungry, American?"

Bucky counted backwards in his head. He hadn't had a full meal since breakfast three days ago. 

He figured it was probably time to see what all of this was about. 

"Yes, sir."

The officer turned his chair so that he was facing Bucky. He spread his legs and gestured at his lap.

Yeah, that's pretty much what he'd expected. 

"Not that hungry, sir."

Monty had stowed two tack biscuits in the ticking of his mattress. When the door was locked he passed them over and nobody said anything about his clothes or his bare feet. 

 

***

 

The next morning their cell didn't open until after breakfast. They went right to work on the line, picking pieces out of one bin and sticking em to pieces out of another. 

The day was routine except that the cold concrete of the floor played merry hell on Bucky's feet. 

They were locked in for dinner. 

And breakfast again. 

 

***

 

Bucky was taken alone out of the cell and brought to the showers again. He stripped himself, he washed himself, he shaved himself, and he didn't kill himself. 

He got a nasty shock when he looked in the mirror. Five days had scrubbed a lot off him.

This time they didn't even give him pants, just an overlong shirt missing all its buttons that he had to clutch closed at the front to keep himself covered. 

His feet looked wrong, lumpy and swollen, and it was a relief to kneel and get his weight off of them. 

He didn't hear the scrape of forks and knives as the officers ate their dinner. He didn't try to listen to their conversation. He just focused on not falling down until the officer turned his chair and opened his legs. He knew what the answer would be this time. 

"Are you hungry, American?"

Bucky nodded. 

"Even hungry enough for this?" He waved his hand over his crotch, and Bucky couldn't help but notice the cloth there was tight against the bulge of him. 

"I get real food, after," he said, wary of this man's generosity. "And the others in my cell. They get meals again."

The officer looked him over. 

"Yes. But tonight you serve the whole table first. Punishment for making me wait."

Bucky glared at him from under the shaggy growth of his bangs. There were five other men seated at the table. 

"If I'm going to all that trouble I want my clothes back. My real clothes. And my boots."

The officer's mouth quirked up in a half-smile.

"Fearsome American negotiators."

Bucky's cheeks flamed. He knew what a pathetic figure he cut, selling his body for a meal and a pair of shoes. But he needed the food. He needed his feet to be ready to run. That's what they were selling and this was the currency they were accepting. They made the situation and it was a shitty situation. That didn't change the fact that Bucky needed to eat. It also didn't change the fact that he was, fundamentally, a cocky prick from Brooklyn. 

"And I want that shit laundered and shined. I ain't a class act but we're all pretending anyway, right?" 

The officer chuckled. 

"That is a thing I like about Americans. A British would roll his eyes, sniff like he's offended, do it anyway, like it was an embarrassing necessity. A British would make the situation droll and pretend it was a formality." The officer leaned over Bucky and grasped the lapel of the too- large shirt, tugging it off Bucky's shoulders and pushing it down his arms until it fell to the floor. "Americans lack manners. They see something ugly and say it's ugly. They're so defenseless, these outraged Americans. Show yourself to us, boy."

Bucky stood on unsteady legs and resolved to shut his fucking mouth before this calm Nazi officer managed to make him feel even smaller and stupider than he already had. 

"You let yourself get so skinny, lamb. You couldn't fight back if you wanted to, hmm?"

He probably couldn't, but no way was he going to say that. He fucked up. He should have given in the first night. He'd let himself and his squad starve, he'd lost muscle mass and injured his feet in order to preserve his dignity over something that would happen whether he made it easy or hard. 

Shit, the kraut was right. If he ever got out of this shithole of a base Bucky was going to have to track down whoever wrote operations manuals and tell them to add a section to the hostage manual about maintaining mission readiness in captivity. 

"You can go back to the floor, Liebchen," the officer said. "Klaus, please, come join me."

 

***

 

They only wanted his mouth and when it was over he flooded with hot shame at the thought that he'd kept his cellmates hungry for two days over something so trivial.

The officer - Hauptmann Richter, Bucky was informed as he wiped the man's jizz off his chin - dismissed each officer as they finished with him then ordered a plate of food that was placed on the floor beside his chair. 

Bucky was allowed to use his hands to eat, but not silverware. Richter petted his hair as he tried to eat slowly enough to keep the meal down. He wanted to cringe away from the touch but he wanted food and clothes and to leave the room more, so he let Richter pet his hair and chewed every bite twenty times to make sure that what he swallowed stayed swallowed. 

 

***

 

The clothes were laundered, though the boots weren't shined. 

He didn't fuss about it, revelling in the feeling of clean, dry, warm socks over his battered feet.

"When I call you to dine with me again, you will be hungry, yes?"

Bucky sighed. God forbid he get a single moment of feeling like an actual human for once. 

"Yes, you've gotten your point across and you know what motivates me. You say jump, I say how high. Just leave my guys alone."

"Americans," Richter said with a fond smile that was about as charming as a roadkilled puppy, and he waved Bucky away. 

 

***

 

The door clanged shut behind him and everyone in the cell sat up and stopped pretending to sleep. 

"They feed you," he asked, before anyone could start bombarding him with questions. 

"Yeah, Sarge. They made us take a tray for you too." Jim's voice told him where to go. Something clattered in the dark near Bucky's cot.

"They fed me too. I'm not hungry. You split it."

"Bull _shit_ ," Morita said. "We're getting over two days, you're getting over five. Eat. Medic's orders."

"Fuck you very much too, Jim," Bucky said as he took up the tray. It was all dry and solid. Bread, some kind of dry sausage. Cheese, nuts. Two apples. Bucky's stomach growled enormously and he gave into the inevitable and started gnawing at the dry, crusty bread. 

He ate quietly, hoping the others were silent because they were trying to get back to sleep. It was too dark in the cell to see. 

Dugan shattered the peace.

"Will someone please tell me what the everloving _fuck_ is happening?"

"Just Nazis being Nazis. Won't matter when we get busted outta here." Bucky hoped his voice sounded calm enough to sell that. 

"Are you okay?" Jones sounded upset. If Jones was upset these other assholes must have been climbing the fucking walls when he was gone. 

"You know what we're not gonna go," Bucky said, "what we're not gonna do is ask any fuckin questions about this. We're gonna eat our fuckin food and get our fuckin sleep and understand that military organizations all over the world function on a need-to-know basis and accept that none of you need to know more than that. You read me?"

His voice had been rising and it echoed against the walls when he managed to stop himself. 

"Barnes," Monty said, after a moment,  "you say the word and we rush the door. No questions. We may be in different armies but we're all fighting the same assholes. We've got your back."

"Understood," Bucky said, putting the tray under his cot. Rats would take the apple cores before morning. "Now all of you go the fuck to sleep."

 

***

 

It wasn't every day, just most of them,  and after that first time it was never in the officers' mess. 

Richter would send for him after dinner when he wanted a distraction and Bucky would be escorted to his private office and stay for an hour or more, depending on whether Richter had anybody he wanted to entertain. 

His cell mates kept getting fed, Bucky didn't get starved again. It wasn't pleasant but it wouldn't kill him. 

He made the mistake of asking Richter why he'd targeted Bucky. 

"Your friends. The two Americans are like you, young and stupid and they look up to you as their leader. The others in your cell are ten years older than you, hate being protected by someone they see as a child. Using you quiets the others."

Bucky let that settle in his head. 

"Or, you have a lovely mouth and I wanted it more than I wanted anybody else. You know what you look like, Liebchen. Who else here begins to compare to you?"

Richter had lit a cigarette and opened the placket of his pants. "Choose whichever answer you like best. Which is worse, the thought that you're here because you're convenient or the worry that I found you tempting and others will as well?"

Bucky was learning that time spent with Richter was better spent with something other than words in his mouth. Any time he tried to get under the German's skin he got caught flat-footed and left feeling worse than before. 

 Bucky made up his mind to shut up, nobody asked any more questions. That made it easier. For a while. 

 

***

 

His skin pricked with unease as he was led to the showers again. In the three weeks that Richter had been making use of him he'd never bothered to have Bucky cleaned. Certainly not to the extent that a guard blocked his egress until he'd spent five minutes finger-fucking himself with a soapy cloth at gunpoint, a memory that surely wouldn't be making any salient reappearances in his nightmares. 

It didn't bode well. 

His unease deepened when he was given a short silk robe to dress in. 

This. This was going to be a very bad night. Maybe the time to pretend this night had never happened was right now and every moment after for the rest of history. He could get through this. It wouldn't kill him. How could it, when it never happened?

 

***

 

There were only two men at dinner in the officer's mess. Bucky was made to kneel beside Richter and he held his tongue and tried to understand what they were saying.

The other man was bigger than Richter, middle-aged with a square face and a stupid little mustache; not as stupid as Hitler's but not much was. 

The strange officer seemed to be doing his best to ignore Bucky, which was preferable to Richter's attention. He kept running his hand over Bucky's head and trailing it down his neck to toy with the collar of the silk robe. Each time he did it got harder to stay in place, to keep from striking out at him.

Eventually Richter settled his hand on the nape of Bucky's neck, leaving it there as a hot, intimate weight that made Bucky want to scream. 

He looked between his knees and tried to count the stripes in the wood beneath him. He needed to remember that whatever was going to happen never happened, that he wasn't here.

That strategy backfired when Richter grabbed a fistfull of hair and yanked back on Bucky's head until his back was bowed and he was seeing the ceiling through watering eyes. 

"Colonel Lohmer asked you a question, boy."

"I'm sorry sir, I didn't hear the question, sir," Bucky said. 

"Is he subnormal, Hauptmann? You know we have solutions for that."

Richter laughed. "He's not an idiot. Just stubborn. All the American workers are like that. They go into their heads."

Lohmer was glaring at Bucky with nearly as much disdain as he directed at Richter. 

"Yes, I can imagine. What kind of worker did you say he was again?"

"Assembly line. And for the Americans he's a staff sergeant."

Lohmer cocked a brow at him. 

"Strange uniform for an officer."

"And this is a strange place for a boy from New York. Pay it no mind, he wears field clothes for field work. This is merely because I asked my men to ensure everything on base was made perfect for you. That includes the toys."

Richter released him and Bucky's head dropped forward. He leaned as far away from the officer as he could while still keeping his place. 

"I don't think my taste in _toys_ is quite the same as yours, Hauptmann."

Richter shrugged and went back to stroking Bucky's neck.

"Taste is personal, I'm sure you'll find something to play with when I'm gone, I merely thought I'd make the offer."

With that the men lapsed back into German and finished their meal.

 

***

 

Richter's quarters were nearly bare.

The books were packed away, the closet empty, the walls showed only shadows where dust hadn't settled over the portraits that had hung there. 

All that was left was a single uniform hanging on the back of the door, the neatly-made bed, and a large trunk in the center of the floor. 

"It must be clear by now that tonight is our last night together, Liebchen," Richter said as he opened the trunk and removed a bottle. "I can't threaten to starve you or your friends anymore. Do you want to run away from me?" 

He set the bottle on the empty desk and returned to the trunk for a glass.

"You ain't gonna let me run."

Richter smiled at Bucky and removed two glasses from the trunk, along with a handful of red fabric.

"Of course not. I have a guard stationed outside of your cell, I've told him to shoot the inferiors first should anything unusual happen tonight." He lifted one end of the trunk and shifted some of the red fabric beneath it. Rope. It was a long, sleek coil of red rope.

"I'm surprised you didn't use that to put a fuckin' bow on me. Trying to suck up to the knew boss, Hauptmann?"

"Nein, Liebchen. We're equals, Lohmer and I. Just different branches and I've got a better placement coming, no need to worry that I've been demoted," his smile heated up. "Though you would have looked pretty with a bow on your head. It would pair so nicely with your negligee."

Bucky's face flushed. He felt half dead, he felt sick to his stomach. He didn't want to be here, trading jabs with a Nazi pencil-pusher in a godforsaken pile of bricks in Austria, he wanted to be home and warm and happy again sometime before someone put a bullet in his miserable skull. But he wasn't going to get that. He was going to get lecherous smiles from old officers who dressed him up in silk so they could have a nice treat before going to their better posting. It made him feel rangy and feral and helpless.

"On your knees over the trunk, Kitten."

It wasn't fair.

"Good, spread out your legs and put your elbows flat on the ground."

It wasn't fucking fair.

"Knees on either side of the box, ankles together."

He'd behaved himself.

"Turn your head to the side, I want to see your face."

He'd kept the others safe, kept them away from this.

Richter was tying the loops of rope around his thighs and biceps, then weaving an intricate pattern; legs connected to arms, a web over his back, a knot at the base of his skull, everything held down by his own weight on top of the trunk until the only way he could move was to point and flex his feet or make fists out of his shaking hands.

"You're so pretty, boy. So young and pretty and you don't even know it."

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Did they clean you for me?"

He'd been waiting.

"I wish I could have had them shave you, make you bare for me."

He'd waited.

"Relax, or it will hurt more."

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Breathe."

He was supposed to be warm and home and happy the first time he did this.

"Liebchen, oh, good boy."

He'd waited.

"Oh, good, good boy."

 

***

 

Nobody was shot when he got back to the cell and he wasn't even sore after.

Thank the lord for small miracles.

He was just cold. And alone.

And he'd started to cough.


End file.
